


Half Bast Eleven

by gemmaspumpkins



Category: Kingkiller Chronicles - Patrick Rothfuss
Genre: mostly just Bast thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 03:48:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15699534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gemmaspumpkins/pseuds/gemmaspumpkins
Summary: Chronicler prepares to take down a story that Bast has offered him, and Bast prepares to share it.





	Half Bast Eleven

When Bast had brought the idea up, Devan jumped at the chance, just as Bast thought he would. In the moment, Bast thought the enthusiasm was genuine, and only later considered that the Chronicler may have had a few recent threats in mind. While those threats weren't empty, they weren't related to this request, and quite frankly Bast had nearly forgotten them, his mind jumping quickly on to this next project. 

Chronicler had bit, he assumed, because who wouldn't want to hear a story of the fae, told in their own words? Who would resist the second side to the story, more information on the heroes of old and the heroes of today? (In mortal terms, for in the fae they were all simply heroes, with no real time put upon them)

Of course, Bast had his own reasons for offering. The main one, that he could easily admit (and was honestly waiting for Chronicler to suggest) was his own ego. There was no part of Bast that would have accepted his role in the story diminished, no humility or kindness when there was a chance to be in the spotlight. Bast grinned when he thought of it – Kvothe finding out that Bast had a story too, that there would be songs and plays – he knew Kvothe would smile. "Oh, Bast," he would say shaking his head in mock disgust, but with the twinkle in his eye that only came out when Bast was especially mischievous. 

And the part of him that was Kote would be glad to share the stage, give up some of the fame. Bast didn't relish this – he wanted Kvothe's story to bring back Kvothe's pride and showmanship (and then maybe Kvothe would write one of the songs about Bast! What an honor that would be.) 

More than that though, he wanted Kvothe to hear things, one day, in Bast's own words. He wanted Chronicler to hold on to this manuscript until the game was played out, everyone's final moves made, the soldiers home to their weepy wives and children they had never met. Bast wanted the endgame to end - and he wouldn't interfere - but he needed Kvothe to know he had said these things, felt these feelings before. There could be no "You're just saying this because," or "In light of," or what he was most afraid of, that when it was all said and done, the last fire out, the last scrael in ash and elm, that anything Bast said would ring false in Kvothe's perfect ears. 

He couldn't say the things he wanted to say to Kvothe now, he couldn't explain things. Part of it was the not interfering, and part of it was simply the way of things, things unsaid and topics that if touched on, would lead to interfering. But Bast knew these things, and he played his part and he looked for ways to prove himself, ways that Kvothe could remember in the end as earnest and know for himself that they were true. 

Chronicler had been dubious. He had already been up writing for a full day, one that felt like a full span. But Bast was as bright and chipper as if he'd just woken up from a nap. Chronicler almost asked if Bast could write it himself, but he did remember the threats and he did know he was staking his own reputation. He was a seeker of stories, and if he could get two out of his time in Newarre, all the better. He prepared new paper and ink. 

Chronicler was staring at the full moon when Bast returned, silently and eagerly serving two glasses of wine and sitting down. 

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" Bast said. He was serious, but he also wanted to lighten the mood for Chronicler, who often looked as though he'd seen a ghost any time Bast opened his mouth. Bast needed Chronicler to be comfortable. He needed him to be friendly, and someone he could trust for what could potentially be a long time. 

"What? Yes. Beautiful," Chronicler came out of his reverie, and gave the ghost expression again: wide eyes, a flash of paleness. Bast's charm worked on most mortals easily, but it had the opposite effect on Devan. 

"I've met her," Bast said. Maybe he could win Chronicler over with more information, things he didn't know. But Chronicler remained quiet, dipping his pen. Bast took his turn to look wistfully out the window, and waited for a response. Finally, Chronicler cleared his throat. 

"You met the moon, is that where you'd like to start?"

"No, no, I just thought you may be interested in… nevermind. But that can be a story for another time," Bast said. There had to be some way of beginning, without interfering, without Chronicler immediately blabbing about anything unusual to Kvothe, or Skarpi, or worse. After it was written, Bast would of course seal it himself, and he would add some bits to that would tongue tie Chronicler (in an almost literal sense) should he ever think to share it before the time it was to be shared.

"I'm not sure where to start. You're a professional storyteller, so how about I tell you what I want to say, and then you can write it any which way you please?" Bast said. 

"Apart from our friend down the hall, that's how it usually works," Chronicler smirked without looking up from where he was marking a heading: the date, the place, the subject. Bast lit up at this. A smirk was good. A smirk said "we're on the same side." 

"Is that the date? That's the most important thing really." He'd given Chronicler the overview – that he would have to wait to publish this. Of course, he hadn't told Chronicler the part about the sealing or the other preventative measures yet, as they certainly would not get him far in the building of trust.

"The date is important, because things will come to pass that may, well, seem to incriminate me." 

Chronicler raised an eyebrow, "Seem to?" 

Bast sighed. "Maybe incriminate is too strong a word. I have been in the mortal realm twelve years. I have not spent every minute of all of those years cavorting with village girls or trying to get Reshi back on his feet. And I didn't come here to do those things. And by the time it is all said and done, many more things will be done and many more things will be revealed." 

He paused, unsure of where to go next. He had never been much of a storyteller. He was fine with that, because he knew he was a great conversationalist. He was confident in his own silver tongue when he needed it. He never doubted his tongue's ability to sweet talk bar patrons out of their coins or women out of their corsets. But this was an entirely different matter. It was a long story, that needed a beginning, a middle, and an end, and so many things in between. 

"Sorry," he said, running a hand through his dark hair as he thought. Maybe admitting a fault would ingratiate him. "I'm not a great storyteller."

"You have no need to be, what with Kote being here. He really is great at it. I was nervous when he said I couldn't edit what he said, but the way he tells it – I already want to go back and reread it, and I wrote it!" Chronicler smiled, and Bast felt like maybe they were friends. Or at least on the same side, both in awe of his Reshi. 

And what Chronicler said was true. Bast was the perfect audience for Kvothe. Bast loved listening to stories nearly as much as he liked the idea of being in them. That was one of the things that drew him in – when he first heard Kvothe tell a story. He had never been so close to laughing and then so close to crying in the same sitting. He had hung on every word, tightly, trying to remember each one so he could tell it again later. But when Kvothe had gotten to the end, in the emotion of the moment Bast lost all of the words he had been storing up. He tried to remember what the first story had been, but he couldn't now. All he could remember was Kvothe's eyes shining for a brief moment when he saw how thoroughly enthralled Bast was, and Bast knew then that he could live lifetimes in search of seeing that look again. 

"So what did bring you here? Not many fae stick around that long," Chronicler said. 

"I don't want to start there. I can't say too much about that. I want to start by saying," Bast's screwed up his mouth, as if he couldn't think of anything he wanted to start by saying. 

"You could start with Reshi – tell me what it means, why you chose it, or how he got it as a nickname," Chronicler prodded. He really didn't want to be up all night, and then take Kvothe's story again all day the next day. Being a scribe, or even a storyteller, is not supposed to be such an exhausting career.

"I could, I guess," Bast didn't want to start there. Hearing Chronicler say Reshi elicited an almost visceral response. Kvothe was Bast's Reshi, and the name sounded completely wrong in anyone else's voice. "What did he tell you it means?" 

"He said it was kind of like teacher," Chronicler said. 

"Yes, something like that," Bast almost giggled. "Kind of, sort of, like that." He knew he absolutely could not talk about what Reshi meant or how it became Kvothe's nickname. 

"I just couldn't bear to call him Kote, and he wouldn't have Kvothe. So I picked it. And he is teaching me a lot – he said he'll teach me everything he learned at the University," Bast said, not entirely untruthful. Of course, the name had begun in another way, as Kvothe had been teaching Bast things he certainly did not learn in any class at the University. Things that neither would admit to in the light of day, and things that would not find their way into any story. Things that made them both feel alive and kept them from withering away entirely in this dried up husk of a town. 

Bast shook his head quickly as if to clear it. "Anyway," he said. "What's important isn't even the story itself. It's that I'm telling you now. It's that this is how it is for me now. Not because of anything that will happen, or something made up after the fact to explain things away."

"I guess I get it, but you're going to have to give me something to write. Maybe we can do part now, and then after, whatever it is that's going to happen happens, we can find each other and finish it then?"

"No, it has to be written now. All of it. Even the things that haven't happened yet." 

Chronicler's eyes widened. Bast thought it might be a good time to explain how the sealing would work, but he decided to let Chronicler get excited for these few minutes. 

"Okay, I will, I'll tell you why I came here, what I was meant to do. It didn't involve Kvothe specifically at first, so that's all my own story. But then, partway through, it does involve him. And where our paths merge, you must get everything I say right, same as with Kvothe. Though - it may not seem like it meshes with his stories, in fact I have quite a few questions about some of what he has said so far, but you must really capture my, my…" Bast couldn't bring himself to say feelings. "My motivations. I'm only having you do this because if I did it myself, no one would believe me. Everyone would say I was just trying to make myself look better in light of, certain things. But that's not it. I just want him – I mean, everyone – to know the truth, my truth." 

"Great, yes, well, that sounds like a great structure, you can start whenever you're ready," Chronicler had his pen in hand and he was fidgeting, ready to write. 

"You can write all that down. I want you to," Bast said, and Chronicler was off. He wrote more slowly as his hand was tired from the day, but it was still fast enough that Bast couldn't keep up with the strange scratch language (It was still complete gibberish to Bast even though he'd now spent upward of sixty hours watching Chronicler write in it). 

Instead he looked at the moon again. How cruel she was to shine her light on Bast. He much preferred the nights when the dark was so deep he could feel it, and Kvothe could feel it, and they would talk into the night, neither wanting to go to sleep alone, and ultimately neither doing so. The nights that the darkness kept them from the selves they had to be in the daytime, together. Maybe it was good she used her light now, so she could fade once Chronicler left, and he could feel Kvothe's nervous energy through the Waystone during the day, and his hot breath in the night. 

As much as Bast enjoyed listening to Kvothe tell Chronicler his story, he wished he were hearing it alone so he could ask questions and align certain other stories that Kvothe had told him. Bast couldn't wait for the new stories either – he knew Kvothe would have a great retelling of many of the silly things Chronicler had done or said. He was eager to hear them told and retold until the story of Devan calling the name of Iron was as well trod as the time Crazy Martin tried to sell him liquor and forgot to take the money he was offered. 

Bast didn't want to tell his own story, but he had tears well up in his eyes every time he thought about Kvothe not knowing. 

When it all happened as it would, there would be many, many questions and Bast often thought Kvothe knew something was coming, that he could sense it. Bast didn't want Kvothe to have anything unanswered. He thought about how Kvothe was trying to hide what he could sense. How he didn't invite Bast to help him kill the scrael, how he could muster his sympathy to break bottles, but not to fight skin dancers. Kvothe was trying to hide these things from Bast for some reason. In the end, it wouldn't matter. 

But Bast couldn't say that to him, and the tears did well up then, as he thought of Kvothe trying to hide his returning powers because somewhere deep down he knew the truth and that he should keep it from Bast. 

It wouldn't matter. Bast would still try to get him to rediscover himself. He had to. If Kvothe didn't want Bast to know, Bast would continue to pretend he didn't know. But he was fae, and the Prince of Twilight, and really, truly observant of Kvothe. He felt Kvothe around him like a lost limb or an aura he himself carried. Kvothe often acted protective of Bast, and Bast relished those moments. But Bast didn't need to be protected, it was quite the other way around. What Bast needed wasn't protection. He needed his Reshi. He needed to hear Kvothe's clear voice singing over the din of a tavern, his still-there muscles straining against an enemy or a lover, his six-way bindings and cleverness being used to their proper purpose. 

Bast took a deep breath – if Chronicler saw the tears, it would take more than quick words and sealing the pages to maintain his reputation. 

"Let's actually start another place. Why I came and what happens after you leave here aren't happy stories. I want to start somewhere happy – in Imre. Have you ever heard Kvothe sing?" Chronicler shook his head no. "Some have. He hasn't been away long. And once you've heard that voice, you never forget it."

**Author's Note:**

> This was an incoherent theory I put to a narrative. It might not make sense, but it was fun to write.


End file.
